


Bus stop

by BoommmPop



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Transgender, gp I guess... in a way, trans!Lexa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:43:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6393109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoommmPop/pseuds/BoommmPop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke can't stop herself from looking at the woman standing at the bus stop, she can't stop herself from approaching her, from asking stupid questions, from wanting to know more about her. Clarke can't stop herself from falling in love with her. </p>
<p>Lexa doesn't understand why a stranger would stop to help her, why she would worry about her, why she would drive her home and ask for her number, why she would care about her and accept her so easily and naturally when it took Lexa 24 years to accept herself. </p>
<p>Or</p>
<p>Clarke runs into a beaten up Lexa and helps her get home, the rest is this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. People watching

**Author's Note:**

> This story attempts to explore transgender issues even though I do not identify as transgender myself. If in the process of telling this story I fail to accurately represent this community I apologize in advance. I promise to do my best. While my main objective is to tell you the story of two girls who fall in love, I hope that this story provides an alternative portrayal of the idea that not all girls have the same "equipment". And in the spirit of providing a more realistic outlook on what it means to be a girl who does not fit the general ideal of the body that a girl is "supposed" to have, we will touch upon sensitive subjects such as gender dysphoria, self-harm, depression, etc. 
> 
> If you are still here I hope you enjoy this story of two girls falling in love.

Clarke had always loved to indulge in people watching. “It’s an artist thing, mom”, she would say, whenever her mother questioned the faraway look in her eyes as she took in her surroundings. Jake had understood, despite not having an artistic bone in his body. Sometimes they would drive together around the city, watching people and making up stories about them.

“He looks sad,” she’d say, after spotting a young man sitting alone at a bus stop, head held in his hands, glasses halfway down his nose.  
Jake would catch the scene on his rearview mirror as they passed by on his beat up Oldsmobile. “And he has very good reason, he finally got the courage to ask out the girl that he’s been pinning after for months and she stood him up.”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of sad, though”, Clarke would refute “I think he lost someone special, maybe a girlfriend, they used to hang out at that ice cream parlor across the road. He doesn’t know how but he ended up here even though he’s been avoiding the place for months and now he doesn’t know if he should just go in or go back home.”

“Now that’s a little morbid sweetheart,” would be Jakes only retort.

Clarke’s art was always crawling with the characters they found on this drives. A sad young man at a bus stop, a kid taking his first bike ride without his parents, an old couple revisiting the place where they first met. Part fact, part fiction, they became as real as the ground she set her feet to in Clarke’s sketches.

After Jake died, and Clarke inherited his beloved Oldsmobile, she would still talk to him as she drove. She’d tell him the stories of the people she saw. Nowadays most were a little morbid.

She seemed to be drawn to the sadness of others, empathizing with their theoretical loss. She felt less alone when she thought about them, her people, her characters, her stories. But she never approached them. She’d pass them by, on her way to the bank or to the store, and their faces and their stories would stay with her, but she never stopped her car to tend to someone else’s sadness, it just hadn’t crossed her mind.

Then, one night, she can’t stop herself from doing just that.

She is sitting in her car at a stoplight when she looks to her right, to a bus stop, an endless reservoir of characters for her to play with. She finds but one lonely figure, like so many times before, standing with one arm across her stomach and the other holding her hand up to her cheek. Her hair is held back in a low braid, and she’s wearing black running shorts, sneakers and a white T-shirt. Clarke can’t see her face, partly because of the hand she seems to be hiding behind and mostly because of the shadows she is standing in, but something in her posture, in the way her body seems so tense, like a spring about to break loose, tells her this woman is not okay.

Clarke is so mesmerized by this lonely soul standing at a bus stop, that she misses the light turning green. An impatient driver behind her turns up his lights to alert her, and in the process illuminates the figure standing to their right. Clarke’s breathe catches in her throat, the woman she has been watching is certainly breathtaking, and she is also certainly not okay. Her beautifully high cheekbones are marred by bruises. Her eyes are glossy, as if holding back tears; and, even while standing, she seems to be favoring her right leg. The driver behind her has lost his patience entirely and he switches lanes to pass her by. Clarke doesn’t even register him.

She turns of her car, hoping that the sudden action does not startle the girl at the bus stop, and steps out of the Oldsmobile, leaving the emergency lights on even though there is hardly any traffic on this particular street at this time of the night. She approaches the girl slowly, unsure of how to make her presence known, unsure of her own intentions.  
“Hey,” she says, barely above a whisper but loud enough to catch the woman’s attention in the silence of the night. The runner turns to her, a stunned look in her face, and Clarke realizes she doesn’t have a follow up. “Are you okay?” she asks, thinking it’s a very stupid question to ask someone who is trying to catch a bus in the middle of the night while sporting black and blue marks on her face.

The woman remains silent, but she doesn’t seem to be about to take off, so Clarke risks taking a few more steps towards her.  
“I can drive you to the hospital if you need medical attention,” she says, cursing her mother for the clinical approach to emergencies she seems to be emulating. The woman shakes her head a bit and then grimaces.

“You probably shouldn’t do that…” Clarke points out, feeling ill equipped for the situation she has walked herself into. “I can drive you somewhere else if you want, I’m fairly sure that you missed the last bus.” It seems crazy, to be offering a lift to someone she has never seen before, but Clarke can’t help herself. Something draws her to this woman, to the pained look in her eyes and the way she is rolling her jaw while she considers the offer. Finally she nods.

“Great, hop in. I’m Clarke by the way” she comments as she leads the runner to the passenger side and opens the door of the Oldsmobile.

“Lexa”, is the only response she gets from the other woman.

The ride is silent, and Lexa has yet to point out a destination, so Clarke decides to just drive around aimlessly, like she used to do with her dad. It’s a little past three in the morning and there are hardly any people to watch, but Clarke spots a garbage truck.

“I wonder how he got that job,” she says, like she would if she were alone in her car.

“Probably a high school dropout with a third cousin on city hall”, Lexa intervenes leaving Clarke speechless. She certainly was not expecting a response.

“Nah,” she refutes after regaining her metaphorical footing, “I think he was probably a jock in high school, popular kid, quarterback, the works. He went to college on a football scholarship but busted his knee on his freshman year after falling from the roof at a fraternity party. Lost his scholarship, started drinking, flunked out.”

“That’s… an elaborate backstory”, Clarke is unsure whether she should take that as complement or criticism. “You haven’t explained how he got that job though.”

“He probably has a third cousin on city hall”, she replies and catches Lexa’s lips twitching into what, for a second, looks like a smile.

“So I win, then” comes the woman’s retort.

“I was unaware that there was a way to win this game, and I’ve been playing it for a while” Clarke jests, aching, for some reason, to put a smile back in Lexa’s face.

“All games have winners, otherwise what is the point?” Lexa seems genuinely confused.

“I don’t know,” Clarke had never thought about her people watching and storytelling as a competitive activity. “To pass the time? To enjoy the stories that we make up about the people that we see? To share a bit of ourselves in those stories?”

“You sound like a poet” her passenger comments with a straight face.

“Close, I’m an artist.” Clarke still gets exited whenever she gets to say it, and it shows.

“I teach elementary school science” Lexa comments automatically, then seems to catch herself. ”At least I used to”, she adds.

Clarke wants to ask what happened, not just about the teaching, but about the bruises and the alone on the streets trying to catch a bus that left an hour ago, but she doesn’t.

“I’m not very good with kids,” she says instead. “Back in college I tried to make some money on the side by teaching arts and crafts to a bunch of ten year olds. Little demons went berserk the second my back was turned, I still have splotches of blue paint I haven’t been able to get out of my ceiling”.

“You never turn your back on a group of ten year old children”, comments Lexa in a serious tone, but the small smile is back and Clarke feels like she is enjoying it more than she should.

“Did you teach ten year olds?” Clarke asks, unsure of what grade ten year olds are usually in.

“Sometimes, but I prefer first and second graders”, Lexa replies, she is looking out the window now so Clarke can’t measure her reaction to the question.

“That’s… how old?” she questions.

“You are really not a kids person are you?”, and Lexa laughs, it’s small and tinged with sadness but it’s there and Clarke almost chokes on her tongue at the sound. “That’s between 6 and 8 years old, they are so curious and uninhibited, they say the craziest things and believe them whole heartedly, I don’t think there is anyone as sincere as a child that age.”

Clarke can feel Lexa’s love for her profession and also the shadow of distraught over whatever happened that drove her away from it. She doesn’t really know what to say, so silence overtakes them for a few moments.

“My house is nearby,” Lexa declares, suddenly. “You can drop me off at the next intersection”. All hint of a smile erased from her face, all warmth gone from her voice. Clarke is not ready to give up.

“Are you sure you wanna walk alone? It’s almost four, I can drop you off at your door, it’s really no problem” she suggests.

Lexa does the jaw thing again, considering her options. Finally she nods, seemingly more to herself than to Clarke.

“Thank you,” she says “Just take a left here.”

Clarke does so and they continue to drive in silence until they reach a tiny white one story house with a very well kept but equally small lawn. Clarke parks the Oldsmobile and turns to her passenger, thinking of a way to make sure that she will see this woman again.

“Why?”, this time it is Lexa who breaks the silence. Clarke’s confused look leads her to elaborate “Why pick up a complete stranger from a bus stop, chauffer her around for over an hour talking about nothing and drop her off at her home without prying into what happened or asking for anything in return?”

“Well, you could always give me gas money,” Clarke’s attempt at a joke falls flat so she continues. “You looked like you were in trouble, and honestly I couldn’t stop myself from approaching you. After that, everything just happened.”

Lexa doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer, but she accepts it and makes a move to get out of the car.

“Wait!” Clarke exclaims before realizing she doesn’t have a follow up. Lexa stares at her. Clarke decides to just go for it.

“Can I see you again?”


	2. Holding all the cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya is a worrier, Clarke gets a text and Lexa gets a call.

It takes a while for the desperate knocking to wake her up. Her head is pounding and she is sure her face looks much worse than it did last night. She almost falls out of bed as she attempts to get up and walks slowly towards the living room avoiding looking at herself in her bedroom mirror.

“Lexa! For fucks sake, open up or I will break down this door!” yells a female voice from outside. She considers going back to bed, hiding, and ignoring the insistent visitor, but knows that the threat is not an empty one. If she wasn’t so certain that Anya would notice anyway she might have tried to conceal the bruises on her face before opening the door, but there is no use in delaying the inevitable questions that will follow.

“Hold up, I’m coming! Stop terrifying my neighbors!” she yells back as she takes the lasts steps towards her front door.

“Finally,” sighs Anya as she steps inside the house relieved, for a moment, before she catches sight of her best friends face. “What the fuck Lexa?! What happened?!”

“Do not scream, please, my head is killing me.” Lexa responds and motions for Anya to sit on the lonely couch that takes up a third of the living space. Anya, for once, does as she is told, stunned by the other woman’s appearance.

“I’ve been calling you since last night, you went dropped off the face of the planet, Lexa.” she complains loudly, and then softens “I was worried…”

“My phone died,” Lexa explains, trying to block out the sound her phone made as it hit the floor, trying not to remember how relieved she was to realize that the cracking was produced by said phone and not by her skull as it impacted with the sidewalk at the same time.

“Who did this?” Anya looks murderous and Lexa knows to tread with caution. She won’t lie, not to Anya, never to Anya, but the last thing she needs is for her best friend to take matters into her own hands.

“I went for a run last night,” she starts unsure of how to relate the events that led to her current state without furthering Anya’s ire. The other woman looks at her with concern and impatience written in her eyes. Lexa takes a deep breath.

“I went for a run last night,” she tries again. “It was late but I was feeling very anxious and I needed to get out of the house.” She pauses for a second, Anya nods in understanding. “I was halfway through my run when I went past a group of men who recognized me and they weren’t very happy to see me.”

“Who beat you up? I swear to god Lexa I will hunt them down like the animals that they are.” And Lexa knew she would.

“Which is precisely the reason I am not telling you who it was,” Lexa explains, as calmly as she can, knowing that Anya’s intervention would only make things worse. Nothing good would come of Lexa telling her that she knew exactly who they were, that she knew where they lived and the names of their children, and their kids favorite colors and the names of their stuffed animals. Nothing good would come of Anya knowing that less than a year ago she had exchanged quiet pleasantries with this men and their wives as they dropped of or picked up their kids from her classroom and on parent-teacher nights.

Anya’s shoulders drop as she surrenders, knowing full well that her best friend can be just as stubborn as she herself is. She bottles up the anger and replaces it with worry.

“Why didn’t you call me? I would have picked you up, you know that.” Lexa knows that she would have.

“I told you,” she explains once again, “my phone was dead.” She both loves and hates Anya’s protectiveness, but even if her phone had been fine she doesn’t think she could have called her best friend, not when she felt so vulnerable, so unlike herself.

“I didn’t walk home though,” she wants Anya to not worry about her so much, she wants her to know that she can survive this world on her own and that there are people out there who are not out to get her. “A girl… Clarke was her name, she picked me up from the bus stop and brought me home.”

“You got into a strangers car?” Anya, however, is clearly not getting the message that Lexa wanted to send.  

“Anya I am not a child, do not treat me like one.” Lexa complains.

“Do not act like one then!” her friend snaps, only to regret it a second later as Lexa flinches away from her.

“I’m sorry,” she adds, “You know I will always worry about you, Lexa. Just… let me help clean you up.”

 

Anya examined the bruises on Lexa’s face and arms, she pressed a bag of frozen peas to her cheeks (“I do not understand how you can eat this Lexa, it’s basically school cafeteria food”), and left her in the couch while she moved to the kitchen to make a pair of grilled cheese sandwiches for them both.

“So, are you going to call her?” Anya asks, propping herself next to Lexa. She picks up her friends feet and places them on top of her own lap, before handing the injured woman a plate.

“Who?” asks Lexa, in an effort to delay the inevitable.

“This Clarke girl,” Anya continues, munching away at her own sandwich, “And don’t tell me you don’t have her number, 'cause I found a napkin on your shorts when I was throwing them in the washer,” she explains, procuring the offending item “You are lucky it didn’t end up with the rest of the laundry.”

It is in fact a napkin with the words " _Clarke Griffin, Artist_  " scribbled on it and a phone number written below.

“I don’t know,” Lexa responds, sincerely, “maybe when I stop looking like the elephant man.”

“Please, you’ve always looked like the elephant man.” Anya’s joke is rewarded by a swift kick in her thigh. “Hey, behave Hulk,” she retorts “You really should call though, at least to thank her, if nothing else.”

“I know, mom.” Lexa is glad for the banter, it distracts her from thinking, from remembering, “I just… she doesn’t know.”

Anya stays silent for a moment, like she is battling herself about her next words. Then she turns to Lexa, concern, pride, worry and hope all jumbled up in her gaze.

“You know,” she starts “I really wish I could protect you from everything.” Lexa is about to complain but Anya cuts her off. “The world is filled with assholes who can’t understand anything that goes beyond what they are used to, they get scared by what they don’t know and they hurt people that don’t deserve to be hurt. But there are also good people out there, right? People who will pick up a stranger in the middle of the night and drive her home.”

Lexa is awed by her best friend’s words and can’t think of anything to say so she lets her continue.

“She won’t know until you tell her, so really you are the one who holds all the cards Lexa, just remember that.”

 

Anya leaves a short while later, after making Lexa swear she will get a new phone as soon as possible once she found out just how dead her friends phone was. Lexa lays around in the couch for a while but inevitably starts itching to do something, so she decides to make good on her promise.

As she leaves her house she walks by a group of kids playing on the street, she doesn’t know them, or their names or their favorite colors. She’d had to move away from the school district that she was still, technically, employed by. She'd had to move away from the kids that had had been her life for the better part of the last two years. She tries to shake off the emptiness that enveloped her whenever she thought about her students, but it never really went away.

 

Lexa returns home before nightfall, new phone in hand, and quickly texts Anya to let her know. She does feel guilty for being a source of worry for her best friend. As she settles into her couch and grabs a book from the coffee table her eyes fall on a folded paper napkin. " _Clark Griffin, Artist_ ", it reads.

“I hold all the cards,” she reminds herself, and decides to just go for it. She enters the number into her new phone and almost hits dial but changes her mind. Texting… texting is easier, safer.

**Lexa W.**

_Hello, I’m Lexa, you gave me a ride home last night. I just wanted to thank you for helping me out._

 

The response comes only a couple of seconds later.

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

_Hey! Don’t worry about it, I told you, I couldn’t not help. How are you? I really didn’t think you’d call me._

**Lexa W.**

_I didn’t._

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

_What?_

**Lexa W.**

_I didn’t call._

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

_Well you texted, that counts._

**Lexa W.**

_I didn’t call though. I win._

Lexa can’t help but smile as she texts this complete stranger, there is just something about Clarke that makes her comfortable.

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

_You are very competitive, hahaha. But I am a benevolent opponent, so I will give you this win._

**Lexa W.**

_Lexa 2 – Clarke 0_

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

_Oh! Now we are keeping score!?_

**Lexa W.**

_What’s the point in winning if you do not keep score?_

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

_I thought you were an elementary school teacher, aren’t you supposed to be all “the score doesn’t matter, it’s all about participating?”_

**Lexa W.**

_I simply can not stand that logic. It only teaches kids to never try hard to do anything because they just need to participate. It doesn’t challenge them to be better and it punishes those who do try, because what’s the point of trying if their achievements do not get any recognition?_

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

_Wow, you really have thought about this._

**Lexa W.**

_Sorry, I got a little intense, didn't I._

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

_Yes, but don’t be sorry, it’s interesting._

Clarke clearly does find her interesting, because they chat for over an hour. She finds out that Clarke went to medical school for a year but decided that it just wasn’t for her, that her car used to belong to her father who passed away, that she hasn’t spoken to her mother since she dropped out and became a full time artist, that she makes ends meet by commissioning illustrations for several agencies and even directly to some clients who have taken a particular liking to her work but what she really wants is a show.

**Lexa W.**

_A show?_

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

_Yeah, a real art show in a real gallery with the champagne popping and the mingling and the dressing up._

**Lexa W.**

_You like all of those things?_

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

_I hate them, but it would mean that people recognize me as a serious artist._

 

Lexa doesn’t volunteer much information about herself, she talks about her old students but doesn’t explain why she isn’t teaching at the moment, she mentions her best friend Anya but does not go into any depth about their history or relationship. Clarke doesn’t pry and Lexa is so grateful for that. Their conversation extends well into the night as Lexa ignores the book she had left in the coffee table, until they are interrupted by Lexa’s landline ringing. She wishes she could ignore it, she really does, but she has been waiting to get a date for her hearing and has gotten calls like that at stranger hours. She picks up.

“Goodnight ma’am, sorry to bother you this late,” starts the voice on the other line and she already knows that this is not the call she was waiting for. “I am calling for… Alexander Woods”.

Lexa feels her chest contract at the sound of that name. Unknowing, he continues, “I’m from the post office, we got a parcel for Alexander Woods, but it requires pick up...”  

“I’ll let him know” Lexa cuts him off and slams the phone without waiting for a reply. Intellectually, she knows it’s not the his fault, he just doesn’t know any better, and yet she hates him. She blames him.

Lexa stands leaning against the side table which houses her landline, trying to pull herself together. “It’s just a name,” she whispers under her ragged breath, “it’s just a name, that is not who you are.” She let’s go of the table and turns to her left only to slide down the wall. 

They call them triggers for a reason. The slightest touch, the gentlest push, and like a gunshot they change everything. It’s just a name, but it cuts like a knife, stings like a burn, hurts like a fist. It’s not her name, but it still sits on her birth certificate, on her driver’s licence, on the case file that the school board opened about her.  

She pulls her legs up to her chin, hiding, trying to blend into the wall. Like she used to do when she was small and tired and confused and alone. She’s not really sure what she is hiding from this time. 

Lexa loses track of time, she forgets what she was doing before that call came through. She concentrates on breathing, afraid that she might forget how to do it. Then, suddenly, an unfamiliar sound startles her. It takes her a moment to realize that it’s her new phone ringing, she hasn’t gotten around to personalizing it much.

**Incoming Call. Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking of introducing flashbacks but I'm not a 100% sure. The idea of this story was for it to not be a "coming-out" or "self discovery" story, so I don't want the emphasis to be on Lexa's younger years and her struggle to come to terms with her identity. On the other hand I really want to write about tiny Anya being a tiny overprotective best friend to tiny Lexa.


	3. Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke helps Lexa through. Then Lexa goes back to being Lexa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a short update, but I wanted to upload something today before I lose my momentum. I also added a some stuff to Chapter 2. I wasn't very satisfied with my description of Lexa's reacction to the phone call. So if you are reading along as I post this I recommend going back over that last part of Chapter 2. 
> 
> I know we are moving at a snails pace but I really want to get the details right from both points of view. This story is as much about Clarke as it is about Lexa. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, thank you so much for all the support, I didn't expect even half the attention this is getting.

Clarke is in the middle of a very intense session of Netlix and Chill when she gets the first text.

 

**Unknown**

Hello, I’m Lexa, you gave me a ride home last night. I just wanted to thank you for helping me out.

 

She smiles in the darkness of her living room, illuminated only by the screen of her laptop which is still streaming an episode of Orange is the New Black. She is pleasantly surprised by this turn of events. To be honest, she didn’t really think that Lexa would get in touch with her at all. And now there’s this text, staring back at her, reminding her of the cute sarcastic and weirdly competitive elementary school teacher. Not that she needed to be reminded of the way she smiled with her eyes or the way she rolled her jaw when deep in thought.

 

They text back and forth well into the night as her laptop continues playing episode after episode of the show. Clarke ignores the characters on the screen in favor of the enigmatic woman from the bus stop. Eventually her laptop runs out of battery, leaving her in almost complete darkness, but she doesn’t get up to get her power chord or even turn on the lights. She revels in the shadows, feeling more comfortable in her lonely studio apartment than she has in longer than she cares to admit.

 

Lexa is charming, and funny, and attentive. She asks all the right questions and shows interest in Clarke’s life without prying, but seems to close up if the conversations switches focus to her own life.

 

“Who hurt you?” Clarke wants to ask. And it’s not just about the culprit from the night before, though she also has a thing or two to bring up with that animal. Something tells her that deep inside this guarded soul there is a deep scar. She wants, more than anything, to tell Lexa that she understands. She takes a leap of faith and hopes she is not overstepping.

 

**Clarke Griffin**

How are you feeling today? You seemed to be hurting pretty bad last night…

 

She gets no reply. Minutes tick by. A lonely grey check mark awaits its companion, the confirmation of a message received. Clarke starts getting anxious, she shifts in the couch, stretches her legs, taps her fingers on the armrest. She pushed too far, obviously Lexa doesn’t want to talk about whatever happened. What now?

 

Silence. The shadows, so comfortable and reassuring before, turn cold. Clarke shivers. Should she apologize? Should she change the subject? Should she just go to bed? Try again tomorrow? Lexa hasn’t even read the message, maybe, she thinks, something is wrong.

 

Her stomach drops. She knows Lexa is home alone, she knows Lexa was hurt. What if her injuries were more serious than she was letting on? She could have cracked ribs, internal damage. She could have a concussion, sometimes symptoms do not become obvious for days after an injury to the head. She runs through every possible medical scenario in her head and hates that she can hear her mother’s voice going over the outline of every single one.

 

She’s hitting dial way before she makes a conscious decision to call Lexa, by the time she catches herself the phone is already ringing.

 

**Calling. Bus Stop Lexa**

 

The ringing stops, but all she can hear on the other end is heavy breathing.

 

“Lexa?” she asks, softly. At first she gets no response. She thinks about Lexa, alone and scared. She is about to bolt for the door and rush the Oldsmobile over to the tiny white house with the neat lawn when she realizes that Lexa is trying to say something.

 

“Lexa?”, she asks again, encouraging.

 

“C-can’t… b-b-breathe”, Lexa sounds like she is either about to asphyxiate or like she thinks she is about to asphyxiate. clarke hopes for the latter.

 

“Lexa?”, she repeats, feeling a bit like a broken record, “are you having a panic attack?”

 

She could swear she almost hears Lexa nodding as she hums in agreement.

 

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m here” Clarke replies, trying to remember how you are supposed to help someone through this. “It’s going to be okay. You are going to be okay. It will pass soon.”

 

Lexa remains quiet, Clarke tries to hide her own fear. She hates that she is so far away.

 

“Let’s count backwards from ten, really slow, how does that sound?”, she proposes. “If you can’t count with me just follow me with your breathing, one breath for each number.

 

“O-okay…”, she sounds so scared that Clarke just wants to hold her.

 

Clarke counts backwards from ten slowly, she listens to Lexas breathing become more even, less agitated. By the time she reaches number four Lexa starts counting along. Once they are done silence takes over for a moment.

 

“T-thank you,” Lexa still sounds off, but at least her breathing is under control, “you helped me. Again.”

 

“I should get a point for this, even that score board of yours a bit”, Clarke quips, trying to defuse the situation with humor.

 

“I’ll give you a point for the help and subtract a point for the bad joke you just made.” Is it possible to hear someone smiling? Because Clarke could swear that she just did.

 

“You had me scared there for a moment,” Clarke confesses, not really sure why.

 

“I’m sorry” Lexa replies, Clarke can feel her closing up and hates herself for apparently saying  the wrong thing. “You should go to bed, I have kept you up and upset you.”

 

Clarke looks at the time on the top right corner of her phone, it’s after midnight, but she doesn’t really have any need to be up early tomorrow.

 

“It’s not really that late for me, but I guess you are used to getting up early, aren’t you?” Clarke asks, hoping to turn the tide.

 

“Right, you are a bohemian artist, you probably sleep until noon and roll out of bed into a can of paint” Clarke thinks she hears Lexa’s good natured sarcasm coming back.

 

“You got me,” she admits with a smile. “But I bet you are tired.”

 

“Exhausted, I really should get to bed before I pass out in my living room floor”, Lexa explains.

 

“Go to bed then, and maybe text me? Just to be sure that you got there safely, you know?” Clarke can only hope her line did not come across as creepy to Lexa as it sounded to her.

 

“Okay, Clarke. I will.” Lexa clicks the final ‘k’ at the end of her name in a way no one had ever done before, and it affects her way more than she thinks it should.

 

“Okay, good night Lexa”, she manages to get out.

 

“Goodnight, Clarke.” and there it is again.

 

Lexa hangs up and Clarke takes a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She decides to get to bed as well. She picks up her discarded laptop and walks towards her bed. Halfway through the room her phone buzzes.

 

**Bus Stop Lexa**

Lexa 3 - Clarke 0

 

She can’t stop herself from laughing out loud at the now recurring theme of scoring. How does someone go from panic attack to competitive nut in thirty seconds flat?

 

**Clarke Griffin**

Wait, when did you get another point?

 

**Bus Stop Lexa**

You called first.

 

**Clarke Griffin**

That’s not fair, you are just making up the rules as we go along!

 

**Bus Stop Lexa**

That’s what makes it fun.


	4. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa hates mondays and Clarke misses breakfast.

Lexa hates mondays, but not for the same reasons most people claim to hate mondays.

 

This hate is a fairly recent development. A year ago, monday meant getting up at the crack of dawn and going for a run. She’d leave her little red brick row house on Locust St. and surround the perimeter of Mount Bethel Cementery, turn right on Bethel St. all the way down to Lancaster Avenue and then go up 6th, past Park Elementary which would still be closed, all the way back to Locust. She’d shower, dress and have breakfast before most of the kids from around the neighborhood began getting ready for the school day. Briefcase in hand, always so old fashioned, she’d walk to school just before seven.

 

She’d spend the first moments of the morning overseeing the early birds that got dropped of at school before the other kids because their parents had to be somewhere else by eight in the morning. Then the mayhem that was the general arrival of students would take over the campus. Finally, at eight thirty, the gates would close and she’d greet her second grade class. The sign by the door read “Mr. Woods”, but for once she didn’t even mind.

 

Her students always had the most amazing stories about their weekend adventures. Trish would talk about the hike she’d taken with her dad, and all the plants and animals she had seen, and how she’d slipped and fell on a puddle of mud and ended up covered in dirt head to toe. Aden would tell her everything about his new treehouse and how he wanted it to have a lookout so that he could watch over the neighborhood and finally find out who had thrown a firecracker at the Stuarts’ old dog. One by one, this  wise and excited tiny humans would relate their tales of glory and sorrow, showing her the world as seen from the eyes of an eight year old.

 

Back when mondays meant new lessons and tiny faces full of wonder, Lexa used to love mondays. Now she has no reason to leave her bed, to go for a run at five thirty in the morning,  to make herself a healthy breakfast, or even leave the house. No reason to love mondays. Yet, she still awakens well before seven. Lexa is nothing if not a creature of habit.

 

She stares at the ceiling, there is a crack right above her bed, running almost the length of the room, breaking it up in two. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think the roof is about to cave in. Now wouldn’t that be something, Lexa thinks, done in by her house collapsing around her the same way her life had. She stretches, reaches for her nightstand, and sits up before grabbing a long orange pill bottle. There’s a jar of water in the table next to her and she pours herself a glass before downing it’s contents along with two circle shaped pills.  

 

She considers calling Anya, or texting her, but she might be risking beheading for robbing her friend of her lasts precious moments of sleep. So she goes through her pointless morning. Brush teeth, pull on shorts and sneakers, get keys and water bottle, run for thirty minutes (which turned into fifteen because everything still hurt), return home, shower, eat cereal and orange juice, an uninspired imitation of her former routine.

 

By the time she is done with breakfast it’s past eight thirty. Anya is probably already at work, helping the helpless, hoping for the hopeless and all of that. It makes sense, she was always a natural advocator of the weak, and now advocate is what she does for living. Maybe even what she lives for doing.

 

Lexa remembers an eight year old Anya looking out for her during recess, standing next to her like a miniature bodyguard. She remembers a twelve year old Anya holding her while she cried even though Lexa herself couldn’t explain why she was crying. She remembers a seventeen year old Anya finding her when she needed her the most, even though Lexa had done everything possible to push her away.

 

Lost in thought as she is, it takes her awhile to realize her phone has buzzed.

  


**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

Breakfast?

  


Now that’s a bit forward, she thinks. Charming, but very forward.

  


**Lexa W.**

Already done with.

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

Let me guess, you are going to get a point for getting up earlier than me?

 

**Lexa W.**

Lexa 4 - Clarke 0, but not because of my schedule.

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

Why then?

 

**Lexa W.**

Because you asked me out first.

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

Does that imply there will be a second?

  


Lexa stops to consider things for a moment, clicks her jaw, takes a deep breath. Where could this thing with Clarke possibly lead? She seemed nice, and smart, and very witty. She had to be a good person, a good samaritan, to have helped her out the other day. Of course, she could also be a completely decent human being who just happened to be extremely transphobic.

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time”, Lexa mutters to herself. But she also knew she couldn’t keep hidding herself in order to feel safe, Anya had reminded her of that. And if protective Anya thought that Lexa ought to take this chance, then she probably should give it a shot.

  


**Lexa W.**

Lunch?

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

Pick you up around noon?

 

**Lexa W.**

Perfect.

  


Proper punctuation aside, that period felt like it was putting an end to the conversation. As much as she felt drawn to keep chatting with Clarke, she really shouldn’t impose on her so much. Plus, it would take her at least an hour to find the supplies she needed to hide the swelling on her face. What had she been thinking?

 

By the time noon rolled around Lexa had spent a good long time icing her cheek, and then proceeded to put a thick coat of makeup on it. She wasn’t really one for makeup, but she did know how to hide unattractive features with enough cover up and concealer. It had been a while since she had really gone all out with the covering and concealing. A year on hormone replacement therapy had done wonders for her skin and made her face look a little bit fuller. Thankfully she had never had to worry about facial hair, now that sounded catastrophic.

 

She ventured a look into the full length mirror on her bedroom. She hadn’t put it there, the place came semi-furnished, and she generally tended to avoid it but she felt the need to make sure she looked her best.

 

But to be completely honest, she thought to herself, concern number one was simply passing.

 

The push up bra was doing wonders for her chest, the grey henley she was wearing hugged her waist and also hid the yellowing bruises on her forearms. A well fit pair of jeans and dark blue dockside shoes finished of the outfit. She looked… like Lexa, like who she wanted to be, a little worse for wear but genuine. Clarke wouldn’t notice, would she? She hadn’t before, but it was dark, and she spent most of her time sitting in the car looking at the road.

 

Before panic can take over, however, two things happen at almost exactly the same time. Her phone buzzes and her doorbell rings.

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

I’m here!

 

**Lexa W.**

I know, you just rung the doorbell, why text as well?

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

Call me old fashioned.

 

**Lexa W.**

But you also texted, that’s not old fashioned at all.

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist.**

That was for your benefit.

 

**Lexa W.**

Dork.

 

The small exchange calms her nerves somewhat, and she grabs her things before heading for the door. Deep breath, turn handle, pull.

 

“Hello, Clarke”, she smiles at the sight of the blonde. She may be even prettier than Lexa remembered.

 

“Hi,” Clarke reminds her a little of an excited eight year old right now, full of energy and expectations. “So, I thought you might know somewhere nearby where we could go?

 

Lexa doesn’t tell Clarke that in the six months she’s been living here she barely remembers eating out a handful of times. She just grins.

 

“You are going to give yourself a point over this aren't you?” Clarke comments with a smile, amused but not surprised.

“I think I might know a place,” she says, ignoring Clarke’s question deliberately, “we could walk there if you are okay with living your car here”.

 

“Yes! No, I mean…” Clarke stumbles with her words, thrown of by the shift in their, by now, recurring script. “I think it’s a great idea to take a walk together,” she recovers.

  
Lexa locks up and turns to Clarke giving her a subtle smile as they start walking down away from Lexa’s house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go peeps, it's not 2000 words, but it is slight longer than last chapter. The thing is I don't want to jump between points of view within a chapter but I also want to keep the story moving along. No flashback yet but a little taste of Lexa's memories of Anya. 
> 
> So, do you guys think Lexa should just tell Clarke? Or should we keep her in the dark a little longer? I'm not sure yet.


	5. First Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Lexa talk first dates. Getting Lexa to open up feels like a "one step forward, two steps back" kind of deal.

“So… first dates...”, Clarke murmurs into her mug. 

 

They are sitting across from each other in a small coffee shop, about ten blocks away from Lexa’s house. Lunch had been a pleasant affaire, or so Clarke thinks. Lexa had walked them to a food truck and they had bought hot dogs and put way too many things on them and walked around for a while balancing their food before settling down on a bench in a nearby park. As was becoming usual, Clarke had done most of the talking, telling Lexa about her day, her friends, her art. 

 

Lexa was funny, and charming, and attentive. She laughed quietly at Clarke’s dorky attempts at humor, nodded in all the right places and made just the right amount of eye contact. She was also distant, both physically and emotionally. She walked a foot away from the artist at all times and made sure they were in no danger of touching when they sat down. She told enough to keep the conversation going but no more than that. Clarke didn’t push, she ate her hotdog, cracked her jokes and told her stories. Every time she made Lexa smile felt like a small victory. 

 

“First dates…”, echoes Lexa, eyes set on Clarke with a mischievous glint. “So, are you telling me this is a date then?”

 

“Well if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck.” Clarke teases, “or are you telling me you don’t know what a date looks like?”

 

Lexa looks away and Clarke automatically regrets whatever she said to make the brunette suddenly look downcast. She looks around for an excuse to change the subject, maybe a cute puppy walking down the street next to them or an odd couple walking into the shop. Before she can come up with anything, however, Lexa seems to recover.

“It’s been a while”, she says, without any further explanation. Clarke nods, wishing (and not for the first time) that she could read between the lines of Lexa’s short responses. The school teacher takes a sighs, Clarke holds her breath.

 

“I’ve only really been on two first dates before this one.”, Lexa confesses.

 

Clarke wants to call her bluff, there is no way that a girl this gorgeous has only had three first dates counting this one. But the last thing she wants is to interrupt Lexa as she seems to finally be opening up, so she bites the inside of her cheek and keeps herself in check.

 

“The first one was back in highschool, with my friend Anya”, she gauges Clarke’s reaction for a split second before continuing. The blonde has her poker face firmly in place and barely nods in fear of doing something to break the flow of Lexa’s narrative. “We had a thing going for a while, but then realized we were much better of as friends.” 

 

“It’s awesome that you guys remained close after that.” Clarke comments, awkwardly, keeping her own stories to herself for once because she fears any more input might switch the focus back to herself.

 

“We were never meant to be anything other than friends, really”, Lexa offers, before continuing. “And then there was Costia, we were together through most of college and my first year teaching. So I’ve only ever been on two first dates.” 

 

Clarke can tell that the window into Lexa’s world has begun closing. She doesn’t mind though. Something tells her that the snippet she got into the other woman’s history was much more than most would ever get out of her. She feels certain now that, in time, she can figure her out. 

 

“I guess that makes me the experienced one then,” she jokes bringing back Lexa’s subtle smile. 

 

Clarke tells Lexa about her very first date. She hadn’t even known it was a date until a couple of days later, when Wells had asked her if she wanted to go on a second one. They were barely thirteen, and had also managed to remain friends after she told him that she wasn’t very interested in a second that. The fact that she had never agreed to the first one was something that he had never found out. 

 

“Do you still keep in touch with him?”, Lexa asked innocent, unknowing. 

“He passed away, my freshman year at college” Clarke explains, simply. At the time it had destroyed her, to lose him so suddenly and so soon after her dad. She had long made her peace with his absence, but it still was not an easy topic to cover.

 

“I’m sorry, I…” Lexa apologizes immediately but Clarke reassures her she did nothing wrong. 

 

“It was a long time ago,” she reasons, “and it’s not like you could have known.”

 

She tells Lexa about her first date with Finn (drive in movie theatre) and that time she went out with Bellamy once (awkward dinner at a pizza place on a school night). She tells her about Niylah (dive bar) and about the time she got set up on a blind date with Finn’s ex (they didn’t go through with the date but did become best friends afterwards). 

 

“But you should really hear Raven tell her side of the story because it is a riot”, she comments.

 

“She sounds fun, I think I’d like her”, it’s a weird thing to say, or at least Clarke thinks so, but Lexa seems so sincere that she can only find it endearing. Clarke smiles, Lexa smiles, their drinks long gone, the sun setting in the background beyond the window of a coffee shop in DC, and it feels so much like a beginning that Clarke wants to freeze this moment and live in it forever. 

  
  


The walk back to Lexa’s is a lot more quiet than the rest of their afternoon, but still comfortable. Every so often Clarke will point out a feature of the neighborhood, a funny mailbox, an abandoned bicycle, and comment on it.  They reach their destination long before Clarke feels ready to say goodbye, but she is certain that Lexa will not invite her into her home, not yet. 

 

“Thank you,” Lexa starts, surprising Clarke. “I know I already thanked you for picking me up when I needed help and for what you did on the phone last night, but thank you for today. You have no idea how much I needed that.”

 

Clarke feels like she has an idea. Something about Lexa’s badly hidden surprise at Clarke’s observations of funny mailboxes and broken swings tells her that Lexa doesn’t go out much. She isn’t about to voice that, tough.

 

“I really enjoyed myself,” she says instead. “It was fun”

“Yeah, it was fun”, Lexa repeats looking straight into Clarke’s eyes. 

 

The sun has set, the street is getting dark and they are standing at Lexa’s door. Clarke reaches out and brushes her hand against Lexa’s, holding the brunette's gaze to make sure she is not overstepping. Lexa’s breath hitches, but she does not move away. Clarke holds Lexa’s right hand in her left and taking a small step towards her. 

 

They are standing closer than they have ever been before, she can feel Lexa’s breath on her cheek, and she wants so badly to just lean in and press her lips against the nervous half smile in front of her, but she is so afraid of ruining everything. So, instead, she leaves a kiss on Lexa’s cheek, right next to the corner of her mouth. She lingers there, for a moment, still holding the other woman’s hand, and so aware of just how close to each other they are right now. 

 

“Thank you,” she whispers into Lexa’s ear without any further explanation.

 

The brunette seems to awaken with those words, she takes a couple of steps back, hits the door, drops her keys. Clarke finds her sudden nervousness cute, but also worries she might have made a mistake, tried too hard, too fast.

 

“Are you okay?”, Clarke asks from where she is standing, not wanting to make Lexa uncomfortable by approaching her now. 

 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine”, comes Lexa’s quick but unconvincing reply as she recovers her keys and slips one into the lock. 

 

Before Clarke can blink she is standing alone and stunned outside the closed white door of a tiny one story house with a very neat lawn. She’s about to turn away in defeat when the door opens again and a brunette head pokes out. 

 

“Text me when you get home?” Lexa asks, as if she hadn’t just left Clarke standing alone in her lawn. Clarke can only nod. “Good, good.”

  
Lexa steps back inside, the door closes, Clarke drives home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry the chapters are not getting any longer, but I feel like the story is keeping up a good pace. What do you guys think was going through Lexa's head? Why was she in such a rush to get inside her house after Clarke's cute little kiss on the cheek? Thank's everyone for all the comments.


	6. Hormones and Jessica Biel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the date. Lexa takes a shower, Anya is a jackass, they try to watch a movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, but here we go.

Lexa rests her back against her closed front door and takes a deep calming breath as she hears Clarke’s old car pull out of the driveway. It had been, by all accounts, a successful first date, complete with all the “get to know you” questions and quite a bit of thinly veiled flirting. Clarke was witty and sharp but also so very respectful of Lexa’s boundaries.

 

It’s almost unreal, Lexa thinks, how this girl can know exactly when to push for more, when to remain quiet and when to change the subject. It’s almost unreal how comfortable she finds herself feeling with this stranger. Lexa closes her eyes. She can still feel the warmth of Clarke’s left hand holding her own right hand, feel how they seem to simply fit. 

 

Eyes still closed she takes another deep breath and exhales loudly through her mouth, letting the excitement that seemed to envelope her whenever Clarke was concerned take hold of her. She holds onto it, knowing that if she were to let go of that feeling fear would take it’s place. Because, really, what is she doing? She’s becoming invested, and so quickly to boot. And should she? Is she at a place in her life where she can honestly say she is ready for a relationship? Is Clarke even interested in a relationship? And even if she is, will she still want one with her after she learns more about her past? 

 

Lexa’s breathing becomes faster, she slides down and settles cross legged on the sand colored carpet. She throws her head back in frustration hitting the wooden door behind her with the back of her skull. It may have hurt a bit, the sound of head knocking on wood invades her small living room. 

 

“Wow!”, complains a familiar voice on her left. Confused, Lexa turns her head towards her lonely off white couch, only to find a recently awakened Anya crouching on top of the couch and brandishing a book like a weapon. 

 

“What are you doing here?”, she asks, certain that given the time of day Anya should be somewhere else helping the helpless and hoping for the hopeless. Anya almost looks like she is about to actually throw the very heavy hardcover in her general direction, but seems to think better of it and settles it back down on the coffee table with an indignant huff.

 

“What do you mean what am I doing here?”, Anya stares at Lexa as if expecting her to suddenly remember something. Lexa remains silent, and her dumbfounded look inspires Anya to sigh and explain further. “It’s Hormone Monday. and it looks like you need it. I thought that wasn’t happening anymore…”

 

Anya is staring at Lexa’s pants. She is staring at the barely there bulge in Lexa’s pants with a slight smirk on her face. She is pointing out the one thing that Lexa has been trying desperately not to acknowledge since the moment she heard Clarke pull out of the drive. Lexa want to wipe Anya’s smirk away with a well placed book in the face but she is too far away from the coffee table.  

 

“It hasn’t happened in months, and then today, of all days, it came back.” She is honestly not sure whether to laugh or cry at her predicament. Anya laughs, falling back into the couch and the sound of her laughter lifts a weight off of Lexa’s shoulders. Soon both women are cracking up together and the small living space seems to be, for once, brighten up before them.

 

“So I take it you called your ‘Artist’”, Anya finally states, after recovering and sitting up on the couch, chest still heaving slightly.  “She must be one hell of a date. Or did you get some action?”.

 

Lexa blushes at the thought of getting some action with Clarke and her breath catches at her throat at the thought of the artist being ‘hers’. She shakes her head, narrowing her eyes at Anya in disapproval. 

 

“No action,” she explains “just a nice lunch date.”

 

“A nice lunch date that made you forget that we have a standing appointment every two Mondays where I get to put my hands on those killer legs of yours?”, Anya counters, “this girl better treat me to lunch too.”

 

“Her name is Clarke.” Lexa corrects. She does, however feel terrible about standing up her friend. “I’m sorry I forgot that you were coming over today. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long.”

 

“It’s fine, Lexa.” Anya’s turn from jackass to understanding and concerned friend comes, like it always does, out of nowhere. “Did you tell her?”

 

“Not yet”, Lexa bites her lip, unsure of whether or not she should say more, unsure of what else she could say.

 

“Are you going to see her again?”, her friend asks.

 

“Yes”, Lexa replies almost instantly, without thinking, without doubting. She looks away from Anya, knowing that which has been left unsaid, unwilling to see it in her friend's eyes. She knows she will have to tell Clarke, and soon, before getting further into whatever it is that they are or will be.

 

“Okay,” comes Anya’s simple response as she gets comfortable. “Why don’t you go shower and take care of your situation? I’ll be getting back to my nap, which you quite rudely interrupted”. 

 

And there’s jackass Anya again.

  
  


Lexa usually takes very hot showers before Hormone Mondays, she read somewhere that hot showers relax the muscles that the needle burrows itself into. She’s not sure if that is true or not, but she doesn’t feel like a hot shower today. The very fresh memories of Clarke’s hand on her own, of Clarke’s lips on her cheek so painfully close to her lips, simply call for a cold shower.

 

She undresses quickly, discarded clothes flying into the white hamper in the corner of her bathroom, and jumps in the shower. As she closes the big sliding screen that separates the shower from the rest of the bathroom, she inadvertently catches her own reflection. There’s no push up bra now to enhance what little growth Hormone Replacement Therapy has awarded her, no nice shirt to accentuate her thankfully naturally narrow waist, no tight pair of Calvin Klein girl briefs to tuck everything into place, she looks like Alex. She wants to punch the glass. She doesn’t.

 

Instead, her eyes travel south, towards a region of her body that so often feels like a foreign object.  **It** is standing at attention, sort of. Lexa has always had an ambivalent relationship with her genitals. She’s read horror stories in chatrooms and forums about little girls so frustrated with their anatomy that they slash at it with knives and razors. She considers herself lucky in that regard, she never felt the need to harm any part of her body despite whatever disconnection she might experience towards it.  **It** was always just there, at times more noticeably and other times easier to ignore. There are days when she wishes it was gone and there are days when she forgets it’s even there. There are days, few and far between, when she engages with it. Today is not one of those days.

 

Lexa turns on the shower head and watches  **it** as it slowly shrinks back to it’s more manageable form. In a way, biology has been kind to her, she thinks. She was never big or broad, never had much body hair, and  **it** has always been meek, average in size at best. Almost a year on hormones and androgen blockers have also definitely left it’s mark in her anatomy, they have given her two small buds which proudly rise on her chest, she has hips now, even if they are not very pronounced. Hormones have also changed  **it** , made it look more delicate, softer, almost ladylike. Lexa laughs to herself finding some strange comfort in referring to her penis as ladylike. 

 

She turns the water all the way to the hottest setting and enjoys the way it burns her skin.

  
  


By the time Lexa exits the bathroom, clad in only a fluffy grey robe, Anya has gathered the necessary supplies for Hormone Monday. It’s become a ritual of sorts. Lexa could very well do her shots on her own, probably. But Anya had never once failed to remember their standing appointment, and she has become an expert at the procedure. Afterwards they will watch a chick flick, something romantic and tragic; because, as she had explained on the very first Hormone Monday “If you are going to have estrogen flowing through your bloodstream we might as well put it to the test”. The had started with “The Notebook”, and done every Nicholas Sparks film adaptation available after that. 

 

“So, what’s on the menu?” Lexa asks as she settles next to Anya on the couch. Anya holds up a syringe, ready to go.

 

“First, 20 mg of estradiol valerate injected directly on those fine thighs of yours,” she smirks, sometimes Lexa fears Anya enjoys playing with needles way too much. “And then we will watch ‘Accidental Love’ while devouring this very elegant selection of snacks”, she points to the coffee table, now filled with Hershey Kisses, Reese Buttercups and other assorted chocolaty goodness. 

 

“‘Accidental Love’?” Lexa hasn’t heard of that one.

 

“It stars Jessica Biel” is Anya’s only explanation. And really no further explanation is required.

 

“Okay, hit me,” says Lexa, exposing her upper thigh. Anya pushes the needle right into her muscle, quickly, efficiently and almost painlessly. As she withdraws she grabs the remote and hits play on the already set up movie. 

 

“By the way, your vibrated while you were in the bathroom.” Anya mentions casually, holding the offending object in her right hand.

“Anya!” Lexa complains as the movie starts playing, “Pause that thing and give me my phone!”

 

She finally manages to recover it, but only after play fighting Anya for it for a good five minutes. Lexa just can’t believe she forgot that she told Clarke to text her. ‘You are blowing it, Lexa’, she thinks to herself and can only hope that the other girl did not become worried or, even worse, offended by not receiving a response. 

  
  


**Clarke Griffin, Artist**

Hey, just letting you know I made it home in one piece. So did Louise.

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist**

That’s my car, Louise. I know, Clarke and Louise, har har. My dad had a very dad like sense of humor.

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist**

I had a great time today.

  
  


The last message had been sent 10 minutes ago. Anya stared at Lexa in amazement as the younger girl rolled her jaw and stared at the screen. 

 

“For fucks sake, just text back so that we can get on with it, I want to watch some Jessica Beil”, Anya complained. 

  
  


**Lexa W**

Hi, I’m really sorry, I was in the shower. I had a great time as well. 

 

**Lexa W**

From what I gather, your dad had an awesome sense of humor. 

  
  


Anya started the movie back up again and Lexa tried to pay attention, she really did, but couldn’t help glancing at her phone every ten seconds, until…

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist**

No reason to apologize. I’m glad you find bad puns amusing, that will make things easier for me.

 

**Lexa W**

What things?

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist**

Well, wooing you, for starters.

 

“Did you just fucking giggle?” Anya has paused her movie once again, deciding that giggling Lexa was slightly more interesting than a roller skating Jessica Biel. 

 

“I do not giggle”, Lexa glared at her friend.

 

“Oh but you just did!” Anya teases, “Who is this girl that has reduced you to the schoolgirl that you never had the pleasure of being?”

  
“I have no idea.” Lexa responds, even though it’s not really true. She knows that Clarke is witty and sharp and somehow hyper aware of Lexa’s boundaries, she knows that Clarke is thoughtful and perceptive, protective and kind. She knows that she wants to get lost in Clarke’s blue eyes and that their hands fit together. But telling Anya all of that would be like handing a semi automatic rifle to a trigger happy five year old, so instead she asks, “Is that a nail in Jessica Biel’s head?”


	7. Charging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been for ever, I'm so sorry! 
> 
> Raven is chill, Clarke has no chill.

Clarke had never been particularly attached to her phone, a beat up iPhone 4S with a cracked screen that had clearly seen better days. She is much more likely than not to miss both calls and messages, and has even been known to forget about the thing’s existence altogether. Clarke is oddly and not so secretly proud of this fact, one of those “artist things” that used to drive her mother insane back when they still kept in touch. All things considered, for Raven to be intrigued by Clarke’s newfound awareness of her phone’s battery life shouldn’t come as a surprise. But, does she really need to be such a little bitch about it?

 

“Do you or do you not have an iPhone charger, Raven?”, she asks for the third time. “Come on, it’s a yes or no question.” 

 

“But it’s not really a yes or no question, Griffin.” Raven, to her credit, tries to keep a straight face despite the fact that Clarke seems to be about to bite of her hand. “It’s really not!”, she insists as Clarke resists the urge to growl at her alleged best friend.

 

“You see, that obsolete piece of technology that currently lays dead in your hands uses a proprietary 30-pin dock connector that Apple stopped relying on about 4 years ago, newer models have a different port.” Raven explains. Clarke, who is clearly not interested in the technical background behind Raven’s non answer simply stares back in annoyance.  

 

“So you don’t have an iPhone charger that will charge this phone.” Clarke finally sums up, waving the offending item in her left hand. 

 

“I don’t have any kind of iPhone charger, why would I succumb to that overpriced marketing scheme? Android all the way, babe.” Raven replies, cracking up as she does.

 

Clarke feels like she wants to scream in frustration. “Useless”, she snaps, throwing her phone in Raven’s general direction. It lands softly on the couch next to her after bouncing of a throw pillow.

 

“Gee, thanks for the complement”, Raven complains.

 

“Not you! Well you too, actually. You are an engineer, aren’t you? Engineer me a way to get that thing working!” Clarke demands, completely aware of how ridiculous she sounds. 

 

She’s just frustrated, she genuinely had no idea how bad her phone had become. After years of not giving it a second thought, after barely grieving the nosedive it had taken a year ago which left it’s screen looking like a spiderweb, after abandoning it at countless restaurants and bars, she suddenly realizes the reason why it’s always found its way back to her. Because, who would actually want this stupid useless phone? It crashes, constantly, and the battery barely lasts a couple of hours and the cracks on the screen sometimes make it difficult to write anything on the damn thing. And now, to top it all off, her charger has simply decided to quit on her. At least she hopes it’s the charger and not the phone itself that has finally given up.

 

It’s been three days since she had lunch with Lexa, and though they have yet to see eachother again, they have been texting pretty much non-stop. They had started a conversation the moment Clarke walked into her apartment and somehow managed to sustain it for over 72 hours, right up until the point that her forsaken phone decided to go from 15 percent to no percent in zero point five seconds flat and the charger won't charge and the phone is dead and Lexa probably thinks that Clarke is bored of her and Clarke is so not bored of her, because Lexa is the opposite of boring. Lexa is funny, and charming, and attentive. She is also intriguing, full of wonderful turns of phrase, smart comments and interesting facts. And now Clarke can’t know Lexa’s take on the iPhone vs. Android debate or find out what she is having for dinner, suddenly she feels empty. Clarke feels like an irreplaceable part of her existence is missing, which makes no sense because it’s been like three freaking days. 

 

“Okay…” Raven pulls her out of her thoughts, she approaches slowly, like one would a approach a wild animal. “What’s going on, Griffin? You storm into my apartment in the middle of a meltdown asking for a charger when I know for a fact that you have at times gone weeks without turning on your phone.” 

 

Clarke takes a deep breath. So far she has kept Lexa to herself, because it, whatever it is that is going on between them, feels new and fragile. There is something about their dynamic that she just wants to protect from any external influence, which again makes no sense because she’s seen her a grand total of two times in her life. At this point though, she just wants to fix her phone so she can talk to Lexa and maybe Raven, wise Raven, annoying Raven, best friend Raven, will know what to do.

 

“So there’s this girl and we had lunch on Monday,” she starts, ignoring the way in which Raven raises one eyebrow as the word ‘girl’ leaves her lips. “And we’ve kind of been texting back and forth since, or we had been until my phone died on me, and I really don’t want her to think she did something wrong or… yeah…”

 

Raven stares at the ceiling, as if asking some higher power that she doesn’t believe in for patience. 

 

“Let’s go then”, she says, suddenly, taking Clarke by the hand and pulling her towards the front door.

 

“Where?” Clarke asks, confused at the sudden turn of events.

 

“To buy you a new charger, Romeo.”

  
  


One quick trip to a convenience store later, Clarke, armed with a brand new 30 pin charging cable, is in much better spirits. She feels well enough, in fact, to try her hand at some friendly banter on the walk back to Raven’s. 

 

“Hey, Raven”, she calls. Raven turns to her slowly, as if expecting high strung Clarke to make a reappearance for no apparent reason. Wouldn’t be the first time. Clarke rolls her eyes. “If my phone is such an outdated piece of garbage, how come it was so easy to find a charger?”.

 

“Griffin,” Raven seems to relax not that it’s obvious that Clarke is just messing with her. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, you are the one that had a faulty charger and thought: ‘I need an engineer’, instead of ‘I should buy a new charger’.”

 

Clarke has the sense to look slightly embarrassed, admitting to herself that perhaps her reaction had been disproportionate.  In her defense, however, her reactions to everything pertaining Lexa seem to always be disproportionate. She feels like there is this very constant force pulling her towards the other woman, and apparently when something gets in the way of this all hell breaks loose.

 

“Sorry about yelling at you, I was just…” Clarke stops, because she doesn’t really know how to explain this to her friend without sounding crazy, or like a schoolgirl with a ridiculously massive crush. They are almost back to Raven’s building and she feels her hands itching to get back to texting Lexa.

 

“Righty oh, Romeo. You were just.” Raven smirks and, in that moment, Clarke remembers the reason they became friends in the first place. Because, very chill Raven can turn even the most awkward situation bearable, because very chill Raven can handle high strung Clarke like no one else, and also because very chill Raven sometimes needs high strung Clarke to kick her ass into gear. No one other than Raven could have turned a blind date with her ex’s ex into a bearable situation. 

 

“Thank you” Clarke says, as they start walking up the three flights of stairs to Raven’s apartment. She leaves the rest unsaid but they hear it anyway. Thank you for calming me down, thank you for putting up with my crazy, thank you for never judging me, thank you for being my friend. 

 

The half eaten apple finally shows up in her phone’s screen and Clarke let’s out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Raven has disappeared into her spare room/mad scientist lair mumbling something about grading some papers. Clarke is almost certain she is just scrolling through 9gag and snickering to herself. She doesn’t know if she should be worried or relieved to see that she only has 2 new messages from Lexa, neither of which address her prolonged silence. She decides to just jump in head first.

 

**Clarke Griffin**

My battery died... how many points is this going to cost me?

 

She hopes Lexa can read the things that she doesn’t write for fear of sounding too intense, things like “I’m sorry”, like “I had no idea how horrible it would feel to not be able to talk to you for an hour”. Clarke scares herself with this thoughts, she can only hope that she doesn’t scare Lexa as well.

 

**Bus Stop Lexa**

Do you really want your score to go into the negatives?

 

Clarke smiles, their banter seems to have recovered without a hitch. 

 

**Clarke Griffin**

Wait, what? I thought I had a point from Monday, when you were in the shower and totally forgot that you told me to text you. 

 

**Bus Stop Lexa**

Keep up skygirl, you lost that point yesterday when you accidentally sent me a text meant for your friend Raven. I believe it started with “Hey bitch”. 

 

Smooth she is not, apparently, but at least Lexa seems entertained.

 

**Clarke Griffin**

Skygirl?

 

She asks, aware that there is no point trying to defend her score, Lexa is very good at justifying her made up rules and arbitrary point assignments. 

 

**Bus Stop Lexa**

Because your head is always in the clouds.

 

Clarke almost drops her phone, the line is so… lame, and at the same time so Lexa that she feels her insides melt with fondness. 

 

**Clarke Griffin**

I thought I was the one with the bad puns. 

 

**Bus Stop Lexa**

I can give as good as I take.

 

**Clarke Griffin**

I hope so ;).

 

Where did that winky face came from? Clarke could swear that her brain had never actually given approval to her fingers for that winky face. Heat rushed to her cheeks and she was so glad that Lexa couldn’t actually see her right now. Rather that waiting for Lexa’s response, she decides to just take the shovel and finish digging herself into a hole. 

 

**Clarke Griffin**

So, at the risk of running my score into negative territory, what are you doing this weekend?

 

**Bus Stop Lexa**

I’ll let this one slip ;).

 

Clarke smiles so hard she fears her face might break in two. Lexa is just so… Lexa, so funny, and charming and attentive. She is pulled away from her happy place by the scent of smoke comming from Raven’s spare room.

  
“Griffin, you better be done sexting, because I’m starving. And we kind of need to air out the place so it’d be a good idea to head out.”


	8. Airplanes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Lexa's second date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again sorry for taking so long with this... life get's in the way. The story seems to be starting to move along though, so that's a good thing. This chapter is also slightly longer than I usually post, so there's that. I'm not completly satisfied with some of it, so I might still go over it one more time and change some small things but I wanted to put it out there already.

Date number two starts out well enough. Clarke picks up Lexa early on Saturday afternoon with a cheeky smile. Lexa gets in the passenger side of the Oldsmobile with no clue whatsoever of their final destination. “Just trust me.” Clarke asks, and how on earth could Lexa deny her? 

 

She is wearing sneakers and comfortable pants, as per the blonds request, and she stares out the window because if she doesn’t she’ll end up staring at Clarke’s perfect profile, her eyes blue as ever, her hair more golden than ever, and her smile making her look like the cat who just ate the mouse. 

 

They drive past the Capitol and the Smithsonian, past the Washington Monument and towards the Lincoln Memorial. Their silence is comfortable in the afternoon sun. Every so often Lexa will turn to her left, she’ll tell herself she does this to take in the sights they are driving by, but all this wonderful buildings and monuments don’t seem to hold a candle to Clarke’s relaxed face as she hums along to whatever pop tune is playing on the car’s radio. 

 

“So, where are we going?” Lexa asks, despite the fact that she knows Clarke is very unlikely to reveal their destination. She feels the need, however, to break the silence, to burst the bubble, with an innocuous question, before dark thoughts can seep into her mind and tarnish the moment. 

 

“I told you, just trust me.” Clarke responds, turning briefly towards Lexa to flash her those irresistible pearly whites. She seems to notice, because Clarke can somehow read her like a book, that Lexa needs to distract herself from the silence, and as she turns her eyes back to the road she gestures towards a couple making their way into the Veterans Memorial. 

 

“Check out those two,” Clarke starts. “Who brings someone to the Veterans Memorial as a first date?” She leaves the question hanging and Lexa feels compelled to formulate a response. 

 

“Well, they met through an online support group for the children of Vietnam War Veterans and those fallen in action. She lives in Kentucky and he lives in L.A. and they are meeting for the first time in D.C. Both their fathers died in Vietnam. They are already in love with each other, but neither has realized it yet.” Lexa gets the whole story out in one breath and turns towards Clarke, searching her approval. Clarke let’s out a low whistle.

 

“That’s an elaborate backstory,” Clarke comments and Lexa’s breath seems to catch in her throat at the sight of Clarke’s smile. “However,” she continues, “there seems to be a fundamental flaw in your narrative.”

 

Lexa tries, to the best of her abilities, to hold back a pout. If Clarke notices she says nothing and instead elaborates on her previous statement.  

 

“The Vietnam War finished in the mid seventies,” Lexa bites her tongue to avoid blurting out the exact date (30th of April 1975), she doesn’t want to come across as too much of an annoying know-it-all. “They would have to be, at least, forty two if not older.” Probably older, because Nixon started to withdraw the troops in sixty nine, but Lexa isn’t about to tell that to Clarke.

 

“Looks can be deceiving, Clarke.” She explains, flatly, and is rewarded by Clarke’s good natured laugh.

 

“You just never lose, do you?” The blond comments, clearly amused.

 

“I am ahead by eight points now, so I would say that is a fair assessment.” Lexa shoots back with a tight lipped smirk. 

 

They are now driving down George Washington Memorial Parkway, Lexa looks out the window as they cross the Potomac River by way of Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge, Clarke takes a turn into George Washington Memorial Parkway and Lexa marvels at the amount of history that this city holds. She closes her eyes, for a moment she remembers another river, the Susquehanna with it’s calm greenish waters, another Memorial Bridge, back when she was another person. 

 

“Clarke,” she opens her eyes as they cross a small bridge and spots the Pentagon in the background, suddenly she becomes aware of which landmark lays ahead, “are we driving to the airport?” 

 

Clarke remains silent, so Lexa decides to have a little fun with her. 

 

“Oh my god!” she exclaims in a thoroughly exaggerated manner. Clarke jumps in her seat and turns to her for a second before quickly remembering that she needs to watch the road. “I know what’s going on here!” Lexa turns towards Clarke trying to look her most accusing. She seems to have succeeded if Clarke’s nervous tapping on the steering wheel of the Oldsmobile is anything to go by. 

 

“Clarke,” she repeats loving the way the blonds name feels in her lips and staring at her through half lidded eyes. “You are a secret heiress to a huge fortune and are about to take me around the world in your private jet.” 

 

Clarke freezes and almost drives them of the road. Lexa realizes this may not have been the best time to attempt to pull Clarke’s leg but can’t find it in herself to regret anything as the cabin of the Oldsmobile fills with laughter, first Lexa’s and then, slowly, unsurely, Clarke’s.

 

“You got me Lexa, I’m your regular Christian Grey.” Clarke comments over Lexa’s barely restrained laugh as she catches on. 

 

“Well, where do I sign, Miss Griffin?” Lexa replies, surprising herself by being so forward. Clarke seems to bring up something in her that had been locked away somewhere deep inside, a willingness to push boundaries, a freedom which she has always felt she lacked. 

  
  


They drive past the airport and start heading back the way they came. This somewhat confuses Lexa, but she remains quiet, mesmerized once again by her companions figure, the comfortable silence is back and for once Lexa feels no threat of dangerous thoughts invading her mind. Right here, in this moment, driving with their windows rolled down along the Potomac, everything is Clarke and Clarke is everything. 

 

Clarke takes the next exit and drives into a parking lot, still silent she parks and exits the Oldsmobile, going around it to hold Lexa’s door open for her and help her out. “Told you I was old fashioned”, she jokes. “This is as far as Louise goes, but we’ll have to walk a bit, just let me get our stuff”.

 

Clarke briefly disappears as she opens the trunk of the car and emerges carrying a bulky red backpack and holding a rolled up blanket. She gestures for Lexa to follow her, shaking her head when the teacher tries to help carry something, and they leads them into a riverside park.

 

“So, are we having a picnic?” Lexa asks as they walk, fearing that her constant questions are making her sound like one of her former students. She feels relaxed in the silence and does trust Clarke, she has proven more than trustworthy in the short time they have known each other. Curiosity, however, seems to be getting the best of her and she doesn’t like it. ‘It takes as long as it takes’ she thinks to herself ‘don’t blow it’.

 

Clarke’s response comes in the form of a smile, as she starts to set up shop in a grassy knoll. Lexa is about to offer her assistance when she hears a humming sound behind her. It starts low and sharp but soon becomes almost deafening. She turns around in time to find herself face to face with an incoming airplane. Before she can react, Clarke is beside her, pulling her by the hand towards the blanket she has set up in the grass.  

 

She lays down staring at the sky with Clarke to her right, and as the sound of the plane’s engines starts to fade, they both turn towards each other. Lexa realizes they are still holding hands and feels electricity run up her right arm. 

 

“Back when I was still enrolled in med school, I would come here and watch the planes landing and taking off for hours at a time”, Lexa imagine’s a younger version of Clarke, lost in thought and seeking clarity in this very place. “Sometimes I would just close my eyes, listen to the engines as they flew over me and imagine that one of these planes would somehow take me away. It didn’t matter where to, just away from the expectations of everyone around me so that I would never again have to be someone I’m not.” 

 

“I get it”, is Lexa’s simple reply. She can empathize with that feeling so much. She knows how hard it can be to try to fulfill other people’s expectations when what they want you to be is something so far removed from what you know yourself to be. 

 

A couple of planes later Clarke reaches inside her backpack to pull out a plastic container. “Disclaimer time,” she says as she reveals two ridiculously large sandwiches “I make a mean sub, but I can’t cook to save my life, so if that’s  a deal breaker run now.”

 

“We can’t all be perfect, Clarke.” Lexa shoots back, smiling, she seems to do that a lot around Clarke. She has smiled more in the past week than she can remember doing in almost a year. “And you are my ride, so I can’t really shoot you down now, can I?” 

 

As they eat she learns more about Clarke’s time at Georgetown Medical School. She had been well into her third year, and was in the middle of her neurosurgery rotation when she finally snapped. 

“I just couldn’t do it anymore,” Clarke explains between landings and takeoffs “I felt like such a fake. Everyone around me, my classmates, my friends, the doctors I worked with, told me that I was such a promise, that I should be so thankful for my talent and the opportunities I had been given, and all I wanted everyday was to leave that hospital and never come back.”

 

“I know what that feels like, to have everything going for you and still find yourself unhappy with the person you are forcing yourself to become.” Lexa feels like maybe now would be the perfect time to tell Clarke. They could commiserate with one another about the hardship brought on by not living up to the dreams that others had dreamed for you. She should tell Clarke, right now, the very reason why she can perfectly understand what it feels like to be unhappy despite the fact that you allegedly have everything anyone could ever wond. She should tell Clarke, but she doesn’t.

 

Another plane lands at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. 

 

“Did you ever wonder,” Lexa starts, shifting the subject, “about all the people on those planes?”

 

“The stories I could tell you” Clarke replies, her blue eyes staring straight into Lexa’s soul.

 

“Tell me”

  
  


They swap stories for a long time, Lexa keeps score and she remains ahead by well over ten points now. Clarke shrugs off her loses, content to play by Lexa’s increasingly outlandish rules. As the sun starts to set a soft breeze settles around them. Clarke reaches into her bag  once again to pull out a light blue blanket. 

 

“I fear I may be dating Mary Poppins.” Lexa comments as Clarke throws the blanket over them.

 

“You were shivering.” They are closer now, hands touching, elbows touching, Lexa thinks her shivers have nothing to do with being cold but does not voice this thought. Another plane approaches, it’s a take of this time, Clarke turns towards the sky and Lexa turns towards Clarke. The sunlight is almost gone by now, and she hasn’t seen any bikers or hikers pass by in a while. The sound of the plane’s engines is overpowered by the thumping of her own heart. She leans towards Clarke, slowly, and presses her lips to the blond’s cheek. It’s soft as a whisper and over long before the plane has finished its assent, but as she pulls back Clarke turns towards her with a look of surprise and wonder in her eyes. 

 

“Thank you,” Lexa whispers “Thank you for crash landing into my life, Clarke.”

 

Clarke slightly squeezes Lexa’s hand. They lay there on their sides, next to the Potomac River, covered by a light blue blanket, hands entwined, knees touching. Their faces are so close to each other that Lexa can feel Clarke’s breath on her lips. Lexa thinks that, maybe, now would be the perfect time to kiss Clarke. She could press their lips together under the stars, surrounded by silence and the night sky. She should kiss Clarke, but she hasn’t told her, so she can’t.  

 

Suddenly, Clarke leans forward, and for a moment Lexa thinks a kiss may be in the horizon regardless of her reservations. She closes her eyes, deciding to leave it up to fate. A breath later, Clarke’s warm lips touch her skin a little north of her mouth.

 

“Your nose is cold” Clarke breaths out, her lips warm against Lexa’s skin. “We should get going.” 

 

Lexa thinks that might be a good idea. They should get going, before she forgets that she really shouldn’t kiss Clarke and gives into the moment. They get up slowly, Clarke uses the light blue blanket to cover Lexa, she feels she must look ridiculous, like a small child wearing one of those towels with a hoodie on the corner. But Clarke looks at her with something that can only be described as adoration and tells her that she doesn’t want her to get sick.

 

“Next date is on you,” Clarke explains.

 

“You are assuming there will be a next date, confident much?”, Lexa reports but her body betrays her. Her very slight blush and shy smile tell Clarke all she needs to know about the possibilities of there being a third date in their future. She helps Lexa up, gathers her red backpack and leads her by the hand back to the parking lot.

  
  


The drive back is spent engaged in comfortable small talk. This is new to Lexa, who has never been a fan of small talk, but even the most superficial subjects seem to gain an unexpected depth when Clarke is involved. The artist is just so open about everything, pieces of her life seem to seep into whatever random topic they bring up. 

The pass by the same landmarks, now lit up against the night sky, Lexa thinks that Clarke probably chose to drive them through this particular route purposefully. As the memorials fly by and they reach a more residential area of DC, she makes a split second decision and asks Clarke to keep driving. They drive past 10th Street and Lexa’s small white house, up 9th and turn right on Rhode Island Avenue heading north west. Less than five minutes later they reach a familiar intersection. 

 

“Do you see that girl at the bus stop?” Lexa asks after a few seconds. Clarke, sensing that this is more than a game, pulls to the side and stops the car.  There is no one standing at the bus stop tonight, but Clarke doesn’t say anything, she just turns towards Lexa, expectantly and unsure.

 

“Standing there in her running gear, she looks so lost, but probably nowhere near as lost as she feels.” Lexa looks out the window, stares at the street behind Clarke and keeps going because if she doesn’t get it all out she is afraid she might choke and drown on the words that are pushing against her throat. “She is trying so hard not to cry and waiting for a bus that she knows is not coming. The last bus already came and went and she didn’t get on it. There were too many people on it, too many people who would see her like this under those weird fluorescent lights that buses have. So many people that would be wondering the same things you are wondering. What happened to her?”

 

Lexa takes a deep breath, Clarke’s eyes dart from Lexa’s face to her hands, she looks like she wants to get closer, to touch her, to comfort her, but she doesn't dare. Lexa is relieved, she’s not sure she’d be able to continue if Clarke so much as moved. 

 

“She was forced to leave everything she had ever known and thought she wanted. And even though she left the past followed her here, caught up with her. They  saw her, they knew her, they recognized her. They called her a name that she refuses to answer to now. They called her other names that she has always and will forever refuse to answer to. They yelled and and laughed and pulled her her and pushed her on the floor, they kicked her. They told her she was worthless, that she always would be. They accused her of so many things that would never…” Lexa drifts off for a second, but she gathers herself enough to get through the final part of what seems to have become some form of dramatic monologue. 

 

“And then they left, they went back to their families and back to their children whom she knows so well, who up until six months ago she saw almost everyday. She knows their favorite colors and the names of their stuffed animals and what they like to do on the weekends. She knows them like they were her own. Her second grade class, it was everything she ever wanted but the sign on the door doesn’t have her name on it, it holds a different one. It’s the name she’s been living under for so long, a name that is really just a character she created, a person that never existed, someone who she needed to get away from. All she ever wanted was to be herself, to stop pretending. She just wants a chance to start over. But the past has a way of catching up with you.”  

 

“Clarke, I’m transgender. I don’t know if that is going to be a problem but I hope it isn’t because I like you so much. I want to get to know you better, and if you want it to be just as friends I completely understand, but I thought I should say this now before…”  

  
There is a hand on her chin, lifting her face up to beautiful blue eyes full of understanding and expectations. Clarke’s other hand finds it’s way to Lexas jaw and she leans forward slowly. As Clarke’s lips touch her own, Lexa let’s out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. They kiss, surrounded by silence, in the same intersection where they first met a little over a week ago. It’s sweet and innocent and perfect. It seems to last forever and yet it’s over too soon. 


	9. Sensibility Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke goes to Raven for sensibility training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Also sorry that it's so short. Life is kind of getting in the way. It also doesn't help that I find it really hard to write Clarke. I can't make any promises, but just know that I will finish this. Even if it takes 10 years (gosh I hope not) I will finish it. Cookies to whoever finds the Hamilton reference in this chapter.

Clarke has never been particularly good at hiding her emotions. Love, hate, distraught, happiness; she wears them like outfits for the world to see. When she was eight years old, she punched her classmate, John Murphy, because he made fun of Octavia’s name. During the months that followed her father’s death, Clarke would randomly and with no shame break down in tears in the middle of the street. The day she left Georgetown medical hospital for the last time she literally danced the whole way home. There is a fire inside Clarke, and anyone who cares enough to look can see it in her eyes. It is a fire that can swell with pride or sparkle with mirth, that can flare up with vengeance and sting with regret.

  
After hearing Lexa’s story, Clarke’s eyes fill with a fiery anger, the likes of which she is certain to have never felt before. She wants names, she wants addresses and schedules, she wants to find the pieces of shit that had hurt the sweet, intelligent woman sitting beside her. In that moment, however, she realizes three fundamental truths at the exact same time.

  
Number one: This people, though she finds it a stretch to label them as such, are most definitely not the first to have hurt Lexa because of who she is, and they probably will not be the last. As much as it is in Clarke’s nature to protect and preserve, it would be impossible for her to guaranty that Lexa will be safe from the hatred and ignorance that somehow still exists in this world. Clarke’s heart breaks in half at this realization.

  
Number two: Lexa, with her soft green eyes and subtle blushes, would not want or allow Clarke to put herself in harm’s way. If Clarke were to seek any form of restitution for the offenses committed against Lexa, she would only further hurt the gentle soul she wants to protect. Clarke’s heart begins to mend as she realizes that Lexa does not require an avenger but an allie.

  
Number three: Lexa, with her soft green eyes and subtle blushes, has survived in a world that has openly and painfully rejected her, she has had the strength to overcome this and found a way to be true to herself in spite of anything and everything that has been thrown her way. Clarke is in awe of her, she realizes that her heart is no longer her own, but Lexa’s.

  
She kisses her because she can’t not kiss her. She kisses her lips first, and then kisses away a couple of stray tears. It’s short and sweet and very much a first kiss. Clarke wants more, but she knows the time isn’t right, the setting isn’t right, the mood is certainly not right. So she pulls away and smiles at the sight of Lexa’s barely there blush and surprised eyes.

  
“Do you have any idea how truly amazing you are?” Clarke already knows the answer to that question, but she still sights slightly as Lexa shakes her head. A couple of strands of hair have fallen over Lexa’s face as she averts her gaze from Clarke, who raises her hand to Lexa’s cheek once again.

  
“Hey,” she whispers as she brushes the errant strands that cover Lexa’s eyes “A dollar for your thoughts?”

  
Lexa raises an eyebrow, her expression somewhere between confusion and amusement.

  
“What?” Clarke smirks, “They have to be worth more than a penny, specially adjusting for inflation.”

  
“I read somewhere that the going rate for thoughts is actually closer to two fifty” Clarke laughs, she can’t help but laugh. Lexa is now wearing her know-it-all shit eating grin and Clarke can’t help but laugh. All remaining tension in the car has broken, they sit there, smiling in comfortable silence for a little while until Clarke notices her co-pilot has begun to nod off slightly. She leans forward and presses her lips to Lexa’s forehead.

  
“It’s way past your bedtime, silly” Clarke whispers. She drives back to the tiny white house with the tiny lawn. She wants to follow Lexa inside but she knows the time is not right, not yet. They walk to Lexa’s door hand in hand. Lexa fumbles sleepily with her keys, the day’s emotional rollercoaster has taken a lot out of her. Clarke presses her hand to the small of Lexa’s back as she opens the door, she is surprised by how well it fits there, how natural it feels. She probably shouldn’t be surprised though, everything about them seems to just happen, to simply fit.

  
Lexa turns around to say goodbye and Clarke sees her hold her breath, probably expecting to be let down easy now that the more emotional moment in the car has passed, like Clarke was waiting for a better time to tell her to get lost.

  
“I’ll text you as soon as I get home.” Clarke doesn’t ask, she makes a statement of fact. She doesn’t say ‘this is not over’, she doesn’t say ‘I want to keep seeing you’, she doesn’t say ‘you drive me crazy’. She doesn’t have to. She stares into Lexa’s eyes with confidence and she witnesses the precise moment when Lexa finally understands everything that Clarke has not said.

  
“Okay”, she responds, a small smile. They don’t kiss, but their hands brush against each other in a way that feels just as powerful. Lexa walks into her little white house, Clarke drives home.

 

  
“So, does she have a…” Raven finds herself with a mouthful of pillow before she can finish her sentence. “Name! I was going to say name! You can’t stop texting this girl and you still haven’t told me her name.”

  
Clarke glares at her best friend, certain that Raven had been very purposeful in the way she worded her question.

  
“Raven, don't make me regret telling you this”, she warns.

  
“So, I should just keep referring to her as Bus Stop Hottie?” Raven asks as she throws the pillow back to Clarke, who catches it mid flight.

  
“Lexa,” Clarke relents, recognizing to herself that Raven has a point, “her name is Lexa.”

  
“Clarke and Lexa, sitting in a tree…” Raven sings loudly and completely out of tune. Clarke sends the pillow flying towards Raven’s head once again, but this time her friend is ready and shifts to the side to avoid the projectile. “K - I - S - S - I - N - G!”

  
“Stop it!” Clarke complains, but she can’t really hold in her laughter. Ignoring her pleas, Raven gets started on the next verse of the song, causing the blond, now pillow-less to lunge at her.

  
Raven struggles against Clarke, who is holding a hand to her friends mouth. Eventually she manages to free herself, taking a bite of the side of Clarke’s index finger in the process.

  
“Ow!” Clarke snaps “Don’t damage the goods!”

  
Raven just laughs.

  
“So you kissed her, this Bus Stop Hottie, Lexa. You kissed her right?”

  
“I did,” Clarke looks lost in thought as she says this, like she is suddenly reliving the very moment when her lips pressed against Lexa’s. “She guided us back to the bus stop where we first met and started telling me about herself. I was sort of frozen in place, because she had never really talked about herself at any length. By the time she got around to telling me that she was trans it was fairly obvious where she was going with things and I just…” Clarke considers her words for a moment. “I was so in awe of her, that there didn’t seem to be any other possible choice but to kiss her.”

  
“Thank you Griffin,” Raven declares, Clarke looks at her in confusion. “I have now developed diabetes thanks to your mushy retelling of last night.” Clarke, still without a weapon, has to settle for glaring at her friend. “And what happened after?” Raven asks.

  
“I took her home, she was falling asleep in my car.” Clarke comments, matter-of-factly. Raven is openly gaping at her.

  
“So, you just took her home?” Clarke nods. “You guys didn’t really talk about anything?” Clarke shakes her head. “And now you have all this questions.” Clarke nods. “So what are you talking to me for? You should be talking to her!” Clarke shakes her head.

  
“I don’t want to seem insensitive.” Clarke confesses, “What if I ask the wrong thing? Or what if I say something offensive? What if I scare her away? Or make her uncomfortable?”

  
“Excuse me while I recover from the fact that Clarke Griffin has come to me for sensibility training,” Raven is on fire this morning. “First of, you need to chill.”

  
“I am chill”, Clarke refutes, “I am so chill I could give birth to a penguin.”

  
“Penguins lay eggs Clarke, you went to med-school, you should know this.” Raven has a hard time keeping a straight face as she says this.

  
“What does med-school have to do with penguins?” Clarke responds, also holding in laughter.

  
“What do penguins have to do with anything?” Finally they both give in, laughing together and rolling on the couch for almost a full minute. Eventually Clarke takes a deep breath, she feels calmer somehow, Raven always knows just how to help her calm down.

  
“So, I need to talk to Lexa.” Clarke recognizes. “Where do I start?”

  
“Well, I mean I know it’s not the same thing,” Raven starts, “but when I tell someone I’m going out with about my leg,” she knocks on her prosthetic for added effect “I expect two things: reassurance and questions.”

  
“So first I reassure her that I want to keep seeing her, then I ask questions” Clarke nods to herself, “Should I like, make a list?”

  
“Please don’t,” Raven teases, “just play it by ear Clarke. Start small and non intrusive, see where the conversation leads you. And don’t ask things that you could find out by googling them.”

  
“Ok, so no list, play it by ear, don’t ask dumb shit.” Clarke feels ready, she can do this. “I can do this.”

  
“Of course you can,” Raven smiles. “And don’t forget to ask if she has a-”

  
“RAVEN!” Clarke cuts her off and lunges for her friend again. This time, however, Raven is prepared and jumps over the back of the couch, running in the direction of her study.

  
“A hot friend!” Raven yells while running from her friend. “Ask her if she has a hot friend you can introduce me to!”.


	10. The act of leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa recalls the events that led her to D.C. in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter depicts a hate crime, it also includes the use of a very demeaning three letter word. 
> 
> This was very hard to write. The whole Lexa leaving her old home thing was supposed to take up two paragraphs at most, but I just felt like there was so much more to tell about this particular event. It ended up feeling like more of an interlude than an actual chapter, it doesn't really move the story itself forward. It does, on the other hand, introduce a couple of new characters, at least in name, and it shines some more light in the context that surrounds Lexa's story.

When Lexa left her little red brick house, she didn’t take anything with her. Leaving had never been part of the half baked, unfinished set of principles that passed for her plan. She had promised herself that she would make her stand in Locust Street, and for a time she had. Even after Costia left, after people started looking at her differently, after looks turned into rumors, and whispers turned into slurs shouted her way, she had stayed. By then, there was really nothing tying her down to Columbia, Pennsylvania. Her former co-workers were scared to be seen with her, her neighbors seemed to be scared of her and her last remaining friend was scared for her.   

 

Anya had wanted her to “stop this nonsense and just move to D.C.”. It made sense, after all. Lexa no nothing left in the town she had called her home for most of her life, no job, no support system, not even friendly acquaintances. Her doctor, her therapist, her best friend, they were all she had left, and they were all in the city. She spent an illogical amount of time and money just travelling back and forth. But Lexa had made her stand, she’d turned her little row house on Locust Street into a fortress, she felt like she could fight off armies from her bedroom window. 

 

In the end, however, it didn’t take an army laying siege on her castle for her to retreat.  

 

That day, her last day in Columbia, had started out as unremarkable as any day can. She’d woken up early enough to go for a run while the streets were still mostly deserted. She’d gone down Locust St, around Mount Bethel Cemetery (where all four of her grandparents were buried), right towards Lancaster Avenue and then up 6th, sprinting the last few blocks to avoid looking at Park Elementary. She’d showered, dressed and decided to skip breakfast. 

 

She took an Uber to York in order to catch the bus to D.C., partly because she didn’t feel like driving for two hours, but mostly because her driver's licence had expired a couple of days prior. The idea of going to the DMV while presenting as female felt like nothing short of nightmare fodder. And even if she were to force herself to look the way they expected her to look in order to get her licence renewed, driving with a licence that clearly and undebatably cataloged her as MALE while presenting as female felt like a risk not worth taking anymore, not after what had happened last time. 

 

So she left her house, locked the door behind her, and proceeded to chat uncomfortably with the middle aged Uber driver from Lancaster during the 20 minutes it took him to drive her to York and then jumped on the first bus to D.C.. The whole trip, car ride and bus included, took around three hours. She arrived at the city with just enough time to make it to her therapist’s office. Anya picked her up at around noon, they had lunch together at some vaguely hipstery place. Once again, her best friend insisted that she move in with her. 

 

“I have the space, Lex. There is no need for you to jump state lines three times a week.” She argued. But Lexa was nothing if not committed, and she had to get back to her fortress. She had said as much to Anya countless times before, and once again she reassured her friend. They parted ways a couple of hours later. Anya had a meeting with a Senator whose names she couldn’t really disclose yet but whose support would be invaluable to the cause. Lexa walked around aimlessly for a while, just marveling at her own anonymity in a city full of strangers. 

 

By the time she made it back to Columbia the sun had already set. Her driver, a stern looking quiet woman from York, waited for Lexa to head inside her home. Lexa took out her keys, held together by a simple Park Elementary keychain, and walked up the four steps that preceded her front door.  

 

As she reached the last step, she felt a shiver run down her spine. Something was off. She held out her left hand towards the door and pushed it softly. In the quiet stillness of the night time seemed to have slowed down. The door, silently, slid inwards. Lexa held her breath, rolled her jaw and pressed her teeth together. After a beat, she stepped inside.

 

The lights were off, she instinctively reached to her left and hit the lightswitch with the back of her hand. Nothing happened. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but the light of the street lamp in the corner coming in through her half open curtains was just enough for her to start making out what had become of her living room. 

 

The place was in complete disarray. The sofa had been cut into and disembowed, part of its insides spilled on the floor, the wooden coffee table flipped on it’s side. There were red splotches on the carpet and on the wall on the far side of the room, like someone had hazardously carried a bucket of paint inside. The bookcase, which used to cover most of the wall on her right, had been ripped off it’s hinges and lay across the room, barely supporting it’s weight at a weird angle against the kitchen door. There were books, and pages of books and scraps of paper covering the floor, the stairs, the remnants of the furniture, like a blanket of demented confetti. 

 

She took a single tentative step forward and heard glass crunching under her foot. Probably the lightbulbs, she thought. A car drove by her front door, light seeped into the room for a moment, the shadows cast by the carnage weighted on Lexa’s chest. She felt something bubbling up in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t sure if it was anger or fear or a mixture of both. 

 

Suddenly something caught her eye. A strange shimmer emanating from the wall behind her unrecognizable living room. At first she thought it was just another splatter of paint that had reached the walls either by accident or by design. But as she focused on the offending red substance she realized it was meant to be a message, a word.

 

“Fag”, she read out loud. The feelings stuck in the pit of her stomach came tumbling out. She felt her legs give out under her weight and barely stopped herself from falling to the ground by leaning against the doorframe as she threw up. Her eyes stung with unshed tears but she wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t give them that. 

 

“Miss, are you alright? I heard a scream…” Lexa wasn’t even aware that she had screamed, but apparently she had, and it had been loud enough to alarm the stern woman from York that had driven her home. The driver approached Lexa slowly, taking in the scene inside the little red brick house. “Is there somewhere else I can take you, miss?” 

  
  


Lexa never set foot in that house again. She left the town the only place she had ever truly considered home. She left the plans that she had made in that little red brick house and the dream job that she didn’t have anymore, she left the friends that she had lost and the future that was never really hers to begin with. She left empty handed. She tried really hard not to look back. 

 

“I have a nice… nephew, I guess, like you, you know?” The woman, Indra, was her name, attempted to distract her by filling the silence. Lexa, while unable to find it in herself to engage in conversation, felt thankful for the distraction. “He’s a stand up young man, just opened up a vet clinic in D.C. Her name’s… I mean, it used to be Leanne, but now sh… he goes by Lincoln.”

 

There was something heartwarming in the way in which this apparently strict and rigid older woman was simply trying to get it right. Lexa tried to imagine anyone in her family saying something like that about her, describing her as a “young lady” of any sort. She thought of her parents, of her former coworkers, she thought of Costia. 

 

Costia had tried, Lexa couldn’t fault her for that. But Costia was in love with Alex, and Alex was nothing more than an act that Lexa had put on in order to survive. Costia had tried to love Lexa, but she never really did. 

 

Indra talked about her nephew some more, it was evident that she cared about him very much. She admitted that she worried about him being on his own.

 

“He is just the type of person that tend to always think the best of everyone,” she explained “he’s too trusting.” Lexa thought of Anya and how she worried, suddenly she felt bad for not appreciating her friend more. She had never once stopped to considered that the fact that she was exposing herself to harm could affect her best friend. 

 

By the time they arrived at the bus station, Lexa felt put together enough to articulate a phrase or two.

 

“I hope he knows how lucky he is.” She said, as she stepped out of the car. Indra looked up at her and turned her head sideways in question. “Your nephew, I hope he knows how lucky he is to have someone that cares about him so much.”

 

Indra smiled, it seemed out of place and yet very comfortable at the same time. Lexa imagined it was an uncommon sight. 

 

“Let me know when you get to your friend’s place” She said, as she handed Lexa a card.

 

“Indra Forrest, Detective, NYPD.” Lexa read the card out loud and looked back to the woman. She could easily picture her in one of those late night cop dramas, wearing a tie and suspenders while smoking a cigarette and trying to crack a case wide open. 

 

“It’s and old card, but I still have some laying around, for nostalgia’s sake.” Indra commented. “My number is still the same though, so let me know when you are safe.”

 

Lexa promised to text once she got to Anya’s apartment and got on a bus for the third time that day.  

  
  


Leaving was never part of the plan, but if there is one thing that life has taught Lexa, it’s that plans change. People you thought would always be there leave and people you never imagined you’d come across crash land into your life at the most unexpected of times. For better or worse, they surprise you, they turn your life upside down and inside out. Costia had changed her life more than once, in the best ways and in the worst ways.  

 

This time though, she told herself that she’d have no expectations. Clarke had kept her word, as she seemed prone to do, and texted her once she got home. Lexa slept with a smile on her lips that night, despite any nagging doubt building up inside her. 

 

The next morning she’d gone through her empty routine and tried not to think about the radio silence she was getting from the blonde. It wasn’t until halfway through the afternoon that the sinking feeling set in. Perhaps Clarke had been a comet flying through the skies, a beautiful once in a lifetime event. She’d given Lexa a taste of what it felt like for someone to see her as nothing more and nothing less than a woman. And maybe that was all Clarke would ever be to Lexa, a first step. 

 

She tells herself she is fine with that as she throws on her jacket to meet Anya for an early dinner somewhere downtown. She almost misses the flashing on her phone’s screen as she picks it up from the kitchen counter. The message must have come in while she was in the shower, again.

 

**Clarke Griffin, Artist**

Dinner and a movie tomorrow night?

  
Clarke was never part of the plan. Lexa isn’t even sure she has a plan anymore. But plans change, and maybe it’s time for a new plan anyway. 


End file.
